


The Toy Who Lived

by hweianime



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A sort of twist to Harry and Tom growing up together trope, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Horcruxes, M/M, Romance, Think Nutcracker and that one movie where a barbie comes to life or something?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 08:06:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17894663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hweianime/pseuds/hweianime
Summary: When Tom was a little boy, his mother gave him something beautiful.





	The Toy Who Lived

**Author's Note:**

> I have had this idea for a while, we shall see how it goes.
> 
> Inspired by Lindsey Stirling's Shatter Me video
> 
> Enjoy~~

 

When Tom was a little boy, his mother gave him something beautiful.

 

“This,” she says gravely, “must be a secret you should hold tightly in your heart. Only special people like us can know of this okay Tom?”

 

Tom nodded. He clutched the object tightly to his chest. It was delicate and precious and the only pretty thing that seemed to reside in this dark, dirty house. Of course, he wouldn’t share this to the world for _anything_. Not even for more breakfast.

 

“Remember Tom. Twist three times to the right, and once to the left and let your heart be soothed.”

 

“Three times to the right and once to the left.” He repeated obediently.

 

Merope Gaunt smiled sadly.

 

When Tom was a little boy, his mother gave him something beautiful. And then she left.

 

* * *

 

It’s something like a snow globe. Tom knows this much. He used to see a trinket shop with some of them in the windows before it shut down. The war had no need for trinkets.

 

But this wasn’t any old trinket. The snow globe always seemed to be lightly snowing inside, the snow falling a shimmering bright blue even in the middle of the night. And there in the middle of it was a boy, poised in a dramatic sweeping bow, head tilted up just enough so Tom could see the sly sweep of a small smile and bright green eyes that seemed to shine and glow, even amongst the falling snow. There is a violin and a flute and a harp buried behind him, hard to see as they were the exact same coloring as the snow inside the dome, but when they were in the boy’s hands they shone like stars as they sang their songs.

 

In the darkest nights in the orphanage, tired and hungry and so bitter for someone his age, Tom would go into the back of his cupboard and carefully pull out the snow globe from where it had been hidden. He would twist the key inside it three times to the right and once to the left and watch as the boy sprang to life with a smile always ready for Tom. Always for Tom.

 

“Play something soothing. A lullaby maybe.” Tom tells the boy. “I’ve never had a lullaby before. The new girl is always crying about her mother’s lullaby; I want to see if it’s worth those tears.”

 

The boy, Harold- that was what was etched underneath the snow globe- nodded and picked up the harp.

 

“No," Tom hesitates, "can you use the violin? I like the sound of it best.” Harold smiles softly and nods, gently putting the harp back in its place, deftly taking the small violin and began to play.

 

It turns out lullabies were soft, fragile things. The music accompaniment that magically bloomed as Harold played his violin was quiet. Tom could hear there was something tinkling there, in the background, like what tiny stars dancing would probably sound like. Tom dreams of an open field in the moonlit sky, a gentle wind, snow falling, and Harold dancing with the stars and his violin with a smile for Tom. Always for Tom.

 

* * *

 

“You’re _mine_ ,” Tom whispers harsh and possessively, cracked lips practically pressed against the glass globe. His breathing is unsteady from the beatings of the older kids. They made sure to leave most of the bruises where the adults can’t see them. Tom had no such privileges and was now being punished with no dinner.

 

His hands shake, partly from the pain and hunger but also from the fear as he lifts up the globe to see the damage underneath. The ‘Harold’ etched into the wood has been damaged, leaving only a ‘Har’ in its place. Tom should count himself lucky really. If the globe had fallen at any other angle...

 

He looks at Harold who seems shaken by the rough handling today, who looked, dare Tom say it, possibly even concerned for Tom. He can imagine it. Harold would be scared because he’s so small, but Harold is kind and beautiful and would worry for Tom. Because he is Tom’s. So he would care for Tom.

 

He turns the key three times to the right, once to the left.

 

Harold begins to play something on the violin. It’s a little harried, but it gets Tom’s attention, which had probably been the intention. The boy in the globe is looking up at Tom, bright green eyes making contact with pale blue as the melodies slows to something light, calmer, with tiny fingers making little questioning plucks with the strings. A questioning sound.

 

_‘Are you okay?’_

 

Tom, despite everything, despite the bitter anger and the salty blood and the painful hunger, nods. He is okay. Because he still has Harold. Even if he can no longer be named Harold.

 

That is fine. Harold wouldn’t mind that his name is lost, Tom will rename him, make him completely his. The idea fills him up with deep, dark satisfaction.

 

It takes a while. The matrons watch him closely now, just as the older children do too. The matrons wait in fear for the next freakish act of demonic sin. The children wait for an opportunity to strike. But Tom is smart. He steals some shoe polish, an unneeded luxury only those most likely to be adopted get. Luckily for him, he’s usually one of them, for his face if nothing else.

 

He tries to cover up the chipped off area on the base with the polish, willing it to harden the same way he can will things to move or people to ignore him if he focuses hard enough. He’s never done something like this before, but Tom knows he’s special. If anyone can do it, it is him. And it works. Sort of.

 

The damage from the chipped wood is now obvious in the dark staining of hardened shoe polish that looks like a clumsily shaped lightning bolt. Not to mention it feels more like rubber than wood there. But it matters not. It’s just another way that makes the snow globe Tom’s. It’s a unique mark to symbolize his possession over it.

 

He renames the boy Harry.

 

* * *

 

Harry is Tom’s constant companion. His confidant. His one and only friend.

 

Who needs the vulgar, whiny orphans he shares a building with when Harry is always there for him, through thick and thin. Who needs desperate, greedy adults when Harry is always willing to give him a smile and the gift of music so wondrous Tom is sure it would be priceless if you could bottle it up. Who needs a family who would reject Tom eventually when he has Harry, who would never leave him.

 

Who needs love when you have Harry?

 

* * *

 

When Tom is eleven, he finds out magic is real.

 

He’s sitting on his grimy bed in his tiny grey room with a man that has red hair and a short beard when he learns this. He’s excited. Too excited.

 

He slips.

 

It was a mistake.

 

Only Harry knows his true self. Only Harry understands. And now Tom has confessed things to this man, the professor, that he only tells Harry, and once again another adult is looking at him like a monster hiding in a boy’s skin.

 

But at least other adults just sneer or ignore him or, at worst, ‘exorcise’ him. Dumbledore was far crueler. And Tom will never forgive him for his sin.

 

The feeling as he watched the wardrobe where Harry hid suddenly become aflame was worse than any pain he had ever experienced. Tom would gladly starve a thousand days and be beaten a thousand times never to feel the icy, mind-numbingly painful fear and fire-hot grief clawing and scratching away under his skin and between his bones, letting him bleed and choke internally, drowning with emotion.

 

Tom screams Harry’s name. He can’t, he, he, to live another day without _Harry_ , his smile, his comfort, his music, his green eyes, he just _can’t._ Tom’s hands open up the wardrobe before he even realizes, the flames ignored as he reaches in desperately.

 

Immediately the flames ceased, not that Tom noticed at that moment, too busy retrieving Harry, his heart crying with relief. He does not look at the Headmaster. Tom refuses to let the bastard see his tears.

 

“Harry?” The professor prods gently in the lull of silence.

 

Tom doesn’t want to share even a single bit of Harry to the professor. Just the other man saying Harry’s name makes him wish he could scrape the man’s tongue off so he’ll never say it again. But he had been too careless before. And he must play it smart now. If the Headmaster dislikes his answer, Tom may lose Harry forever.

 

He can’t lose Harry.

 

“Harry, he’s my, my mum gave him to me, before she,” His hands clench tightly around the globe, Harry glances up at him from his usual bowed pose, smiling softly, assuring him to keep going, “ _left_.” Tom whispers. He hates sounding so weak, but he knows the advantage it can hold. He looks at the headmaster, letting the tears fall freely now because to hell with it, he can’t exactly stop the flow, he might as well make use of it.

 

And Tom knows the power of a crying child; it’s a tactic that has been constantly used against him after all. Though to be the one wielding it was new, he thought he had too much pride to debase himself like that. But now, looking at the way the headmaster’s smug old face crumples into something guilty and regretful, Tom truly wonders why he hadn’t done so before.

 

“I only took things from those who tried to take Harry.” He half lies, “They deserved it.” And that part was all true; Tom thinks that his voice gives him away too much, the raw anger and bitter fear burning away his attempt at sadness, “I, Harry is all I _have_.” That was better, but it hit far too close to home, and irrationally, Tom can feel his eyes stinging again.

 

He wants to hear Harry play. To make sure the one beautiful thing in his life is still beautiful, reassure himself that Harry is still there, is still his. But he refuses to let the older wizard hear even a single note from Harry, and Tom will not let perfection be wasted on those who would so easily destroy what’s his.

 

“Tom, I-“

 

“Get out,” Tom whispers, practically hugging Harry to his chest, he’s trembling, even his voice is shaking. He feels like lightning and static buzzing inside a glass jar ready to shatter. “Get out, get out, _get out_!” He all but screams, he can feel his power, no, his magic lash out in response to his emotions, shoving the professor against the wall, winding him in the process. “Leave! Just, _just_ leave!”

 

“I’m sorry.” Dumbledore whispers, “I- I- I shouldn’t have-“

 

 _“GO!”_ Tom roars, he’s cracking, he needs to be soothed, quickly, before he shatters.

 

Dumbledore goes, and the door shuts and locks.

 

Tom goes to sleep with tear tracks on his cheeks and a quiet flute song of nature that rings softly in his ears.

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you think of the idea, and if you have any spare change please donate to my ko-fi page
> 
> https://ko-fi.com/hweianime/


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